Madame's extravagance
by sallyboy
Summary: Tongue-in-cheek tag to the bath scene. You know the one.


He'd noted on the day of his return that she had a tub in her bathing room. Actually, he'd taken more notice of her having her own bathing room, not just a simple stand in the bedchamber, than he had taken of the furniture inside said bathing room. And paid the price. He'd banged his shins and stubbed a toe on the tub in his haste to wash that day. He'd only just stopped cursing when he heard her arrival and all thoughts of pain had fled in that instant. Afterwards, he wondered how it was that she had both her own bathing room and tub. The garrison had a bathing room with tubs and enough screens so her modesty and privacy would be preserved and respected. She was accustomed to using communal baths, both at the palace and at the public baths, so why? Constance had never been one for such extravagance as this. There had to be a story behind it. He'd had a brief moment to wonder what it was as he waited for her to follow the trail. It didn't cross his mind again until days later, when he caught her hauling buckets of heated water early one morning, before most of the garrison had stirred.

She apologised for waking him, but he shushed her and proceeded to help fill her bath. He smiled as he listened to the contented noises coming from the direction of the tub, whilst he dressed and his mind began working over the current problems in Paris. None of which were related to Constance's private room, so the question slid again from his mind. There were far more important things to worry about, now they had some idea of where the root of some of Paris' troubles lay. They were tentatively building their marriage, too, and he was grateful for the small, very domestic moments a private room afforded them, small things like filling the tub, shaving or washing her hair. It seemed churlish to question something so beneficial. It wasn't until very much later he understood that perhaps her private rooms WERE related to the state of the city, and in particular, to the role the Red Guard now played.

When she'd first moved out of the palace and into the garrison, she'd been content to use the common facilities, and all the men had behaved with suitable propriety, keeping their distance when they knew she was there and calling to be sure, if they did not. But word had got around that she was living as the only woman in a garrison full of men, and ugly rumours began to spread. Rumours about her reputation, her behaviour, suggestions that she shouldn't be sharing the common baths with men while her husband was away. Rumours that implied she was sharing more than bathing and dining space in the garrison. She was angry and determined to ignore them, as she had done before, when they had been about her and d'Artagnan, but these were different. There was venom to them and people were starting to think they might have some substance. Her position at the time had been tenuous, so when she discovered that the new Captain of the Red Guard was spreading them, she went to Treville for advice.

Treville had smiled when Constance rejected his suggestion she move back to the palace. He'd known she would, but he had to test her resolve. So they talked and argued and came up with the solution of moving her from d'Artagnan's single room, to rooms nearer the kitchen that gave her privacy, her own bathing room and extra space suitable for two people, against the day her husband returned. To quash the rumours, he suggested inviting the priest from the church near the garrison where they all went to Mass, to a feast day meal and to meet the new cadets. Treville and Constance had shown the priest around the garrison, making sure he noted her separate accommodation. The priest was impressed with their hospitality, with her cooking and with how hard she was working, so it had taken only a few days for all of Paris to know the esteem in which the Minister (and therefore the Crown) held Madame d'Artagnan. Try though he might, (and he was still at it) Georges Marcheaux had been unable to successfully tarnish either hers or the garrison's reputations since.

And now d'Artagnan was taking full advantage of the privacy Marcheaux was indirectly responsible for, in a manner that Treville would understand, but the priest possibly would not! He hadn't intended to wake her as he filled the tub. He wasn't aware he had, until she walked in and sat quietly on the chair, taking his razor from beside the basin and offering to shave him. He lay back, offering his throat to her hands, at first hesitant, gradually remembering the movements, until she was finished. She dipped the blade into the water to clean it, drying it on the towel he'd left beside the tub.

She put the razor and towel aside, leaning down to kiss him as she did so. His hand went to her hair as steadied her and deepened the kiss, sitting up a little and sliding his other arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently towards him. She leant further forwards from her chair as he drew back, smiled, then with both arms now around her, he drew her closer and turned her so she overbalanced and slid her into his lap. Her surprised cry joined the splosh as the only sounds in the early morning quiet. The end of her braid was wet and the top of her chemise was soaked and he was kissing her again. As the kisses stopped, she opened her eyes to see him grinning and taking in her disarray, her wet chemise now transparent and clinging to her curves. His eyes sparkled as he reminded her that she could catch a chill if she didn't remove those wet clothes. There was no mistaking the invitation as she said, her voice slightly husky, 'You'd better help me then, hadn't you'. Then she grinned and wriggled. He didn't need to be asked twice.


End file.
